


Wordless

by entanglednow



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-30
Updated: 2009-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon doesn't need to talk, talking is a waste of time, because when it all comes down to it, it's either yes, or no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wordless

The tall plants on stilts don't hold Ronon's attention for long, the rows are too sparse to hide anyone, the movement too quick, and ungainly, to lend anyone a hiding place, unless they're invisible.

Sheppard calls them Triffids, and that seems to have some significance, because McKay makes pointed comments about it for the next fifteen minutes.

Ronon drags his hand through the rows and tunes them out. Until Teyla steers McKay away, all infinite patience and clever hands. She's learned how to move people, how to lead people, whether they know they're being led or not. She steers him out into the distance, towards the remains of some alien thing that Ronon never bothered to absorb, never cared to know. There's never any rush to learn things which aren't important.

John has repositioned himself beside the swaying rows, slouched in the grass, like he's forgotten how his bones are supposed to go together. A picture of relaxation, that Ronon knows could slide into menace just as quickly. He thinks someone, somewhere, should teach this, that moment between when a simple thing, becomes a complicated, much sharper thing.

He reaches out to John's face, drags his glasses down, finds John's eyes, narrowed under the threat of midday sun, and Ronon can't help but see that as a brief, bright moment of fragility, when he pulls them away. Though perhaps not the sort it would be wise to try and take advantage of. Ronon doesn't need to talk, talking is a waste of time, because when it all comes down to it, it's either yes, or no.

He plants a hand on the grass, leans over, and the scent of Sheppard's hair up close is distracting, deeper than Ronon expects, and he lingers for a second before speaking. Before breathing what he wants against the curve of John's ear.

"Oh," John says faintly.

It might as well be yes.

Ronon can admire the plastic clips purely for their efficiency. One quick movement releases the whole frame, better than laces and straps, easier, easy to do in the dark, press, pull, catch, release. The canvas straps fall away, leaving the warm, crumpled material of Sheppard's pants, and there Ronon can press his hands down tight enough to feel skin, likes the way it makes Sheppard hiss through his teeth. Though he doesn't think for a minute John won't do more than hiss if he pushes hard enough.

He doesn't intend to push every line of John into tension, he's better like this, long, loose and watchful now he's tipped his head out of the light.

Ronon slides the material down, over the sharp narrow edges of hipbone, steals every inch of cloth he finds with his fingertips, and keeps pulling when John doesn't tense, when he does nothing but raise an eyebrow in a way which is all amused dare, laying there like his pulse hasn't jumped. He shifts, pulls his legs out of the material, skin sliding through Ronon's hands while his eyes are still watchful.

Ronon wants to break that expression, it rankles, grates just a little, and he thinks maybe that's the point. He finds the warm, tight skin of Sheppard's thighs and spreads them with his hands, sliding his shoulders between them, and under them. A curl of movement that's first efficient, and then indulgent.

Sheppard makes a noise, like he's suffocating, a noise that cuts off and repeats, like the strangled-off edge of need, when there's no one to hear but the plants, and the wind.

Ronon makes his own sound into the delicate skin pulled across one hipbone, something deep, something all the way from the back of his throat, and the skin twitches underneath his mouth, shifting fractionally, mindlessly, towards the warmth of his breath.

He thinks that yes, he can shatter that expression into pieces.

But only because Sheppard is going to let him.


End file.
